


His Heart

by space_kid (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - No Mary, Grieving Sherlock, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/space_kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"This is my friend, John Watson-"</em><br/> </p><p>  <em>"Colleague."<em></em></em></p><p> <br/>*  *  *</p><p>In which Sherlock grieves John's death. As expected, he handles it poorly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Heart

And despite all Mycroft told him about humans and emotions, he simply didn't listen, the little brother. Sherlock usually liked to defy his older brother, falling into an abyss of drugs and the "the wrong crowd." He tried everything he could to steer Sherlock away from the toxic lifestyle, but it seemed the harder he tried, the more he floated toward it. His brother couldn't just stay away from trouble.

Mycroft couldn't deny Sherlock's intelligence, he was smarter then most people, but yet lacked the people intelligence Mycroft harbored. Their hatred of the human race was shared, but at least Mycroft could make it seem like he didn't wish a virus to wipe them out, unlike Sherlock. He showed how much he hated people every chance he got, insulting them and bringing them down. The older Holmes tried to explain that _maybe _people wouldn't try to kill him so often if he didn't make a fool out of everyone.__

And of course, he ignored him. What did he expect?

So was it really so crazy that Mycroft was the first to notice his little brother was head heels in love with John Watson? Sherlock despised all people, seeing them as inferior beings compared to him, so when Mycroft saw him run into fires and shoot men in the head for this man, he knew that something was strong, and meant everything to Sherlock. The lingering looks, long night cases, genuinely caring for one another, Mycroft knew they were more then friends, or best friends. They were soul mates, through and through. John was the only thing Sherlock cared for, watched after, talked to willingly, looked at without the licking flame of disgust. The fact that he was a man had nothing to do with it, because Sherlock saw him as a being of danger and care and secrets and love and life. He was barely a person, more so an angel sent to Sherlock to watch after him and give him a hope he never knew before. The heart and the brain, they were, combining to make something unstoppable, and quiet frankly, beautiful. What they had, even Mycroft had to admit was beautiful. 

_"Caring is not an advantage, little brother." ___

* * *

Sherlock ran quickly, his long coat flapping behind him in the brisk fall afternoon. His shining shoes landed in puddles of an early morning rain. His hair is pushed back against the wind, and his breath is quickly dissipating. The man was getting away, and Sherlock couldn't let him go this time, like he had twice before. He tightened his grip on the pistol and ran faster.

The man weaved between people, leaving some on the ground in dazed confusion. He occasionally looked behind with wide and fearful eyes, mouth hanging open and panting with visible breath. When he saw Sherlock catching up to him, he ran faster, knocking more people down. This man had killed three people, leaving an intricate puzzle for him and John to solve, taking three weeks to solve.

Said blogger was trailing behind the detective, shouting out exasperated "'scuse us!" and "Parson us, police!"

The man did a sudden left turn into a dirty alley, Sherlock following him. He turned to see a very frazzled convict, looking around for help, most likely thinking this was another road or driveway to escape to. Sherlock stopped, and pointed a gun toward the man's back. John soon joined his side, panting and watching with careful eyes, in case someone shot.

"Looks like you have no where to run to, Mr. Wilks. Might as well make this easy on yourself and turn around," Sherlock suggested, turning the safety off. The man dropped his defeated arms, and began to turn. Suddenly, his hand reached into his large jacket, and pulled out a matching pistol, aiming it at the detective's head.

"I don't think so, Mr. Holmes. See, I got brains, and obviously so do you. So why don't you use them and high tail it out of here before I shot them against that brick wall," he smirked, finger dropping toward the trigger. Sherlock held his breath.

"Listen mate!" John called, hands up in defense. "No one's gotta go home in a body bag today!"

Mr. Wilks smirked, bringing his gun to be pointed at John, who's eyebrows raise up. "Of course Doctor, no one's gotta get hurt, just scurry off and I won't fill your body with lead."

"You won't shoot," Sherlock pipes up, bringing the convicts eyes to meet his, "you killed all those women by poison, and by inspection of your flat, you don't even own a single firearm." Sherlock smirked in return. "You won't."

The man grit his teeth, glaring knives at Sherlock. Then, his face softened with realisation. "No, I won't fall for your bloody mind games!" Mr. Wilks yelled. "You're trying to protect your little pet, save him from another bullet." He smiled wickedly, making Sherlock's blood turn ice cold. He couldn't pull the trigger, he needed to interrogate him. By now, a bystander has most likely phoned the police, so that was taken care of. He needed to stall him, but how could he when he was pointing a gun at John with murder in his eyes?

Mr. Wilks smirked his eyes fixed on the detective. "My sincerest apologies, Doctor Watson." His finger moves back, and then in a second, the bullet travels through blood, tissue and bone and escapes through his back and onto the pavement behind him, and John falls backward with a pained grunt. The man is still smiling as John's breathing speeds up. Sherlock looks down at his blogger, face falling with defeat. He looks up, not giving a damn about interrogation, and fire a bullet into Mr. Wilks' brain, seeing the life fall out of his body and his body land in a filthy puddle. He takes a second to savor the blood leaking from his body. Lestrade would skin him for killing Mr. Wilks, but Sherlock didn't find himself caring one bit. He would know John was more important then the idiot dead in front of him. Let him die with his secrets. Then he is thrust back into the real world when he notices John's blood rushing toward his shoes.

"John!" Sherlock says, as John squirms in pain and gasps for breath.

The world seems to slow down as Sherlock watches the only person he'd ever loved bleeding out beside him, while he was powerless to do anything. His brain slows down to a repeating _JohnJohnJohn. _He wants nothing more then to pick John up, and rush to the hospital, and never let him go into the big bad world filled with criminals. John was never supposed to get hurt, the soldier, the Doctor, the blogger. He was suppose to tend to Sherlock's wounds and tell him obvious things he knew. He was suppose to stand beside the detective and save lives. Sherlock knows deep in his gut he can't do this anymore if John is not there, not once he got him to travel with the detective. Once he saw John Watson standing behind the yellow tape after shooting a man to save his life, Sherlock knew he'd found the perfect person to work with. He wouldn't have minded spending the rest of his life with John, in all honesty.__

It would've been a privilege to marry John Watson.

"Sherlock..." John draws out, chest rising and a bloody spot on his jacket growing every second, drawing Sherlock back into reality. He rushed beside John, kneeling down beside him. John's eyes are closed in pain, and his fingers are pushing against the hole in his stomach, causing him to occasionally cry out in pain, blood filtering through the slots of his fingers. Sherlock feels his heart collapse. Funny, he didn't think he had one, but it was obvious he did, because what else was shattering inside of him?

"Sherlock," John says again, slightly gurgled with blood, "I... need you to add p-pressure to the... w-wound..." He chokes out. Sherlock processes the words, before pressing his slightly shaking hands into John's wound, swallowing bile as he feels blood pulse out of his best friend. A siren is heard in the distance, and Sherlock can hear the cries of people behind him, but he can't stop staring at John's broken face, contorted in pain and agony of his bleeding body, and Sherlock wishes nothing more then to save John's life, like John had done so many times for him before.

The sirens get closer, as John opens his eyes, which reveal tears welled up in the blue irises, defeat obvious. But no, he couldn't. Sherlock loses his breath at the sight of his best friend giving up.

"No," Sherlock whispers bitterly, through clenched teeth, "you can't John, I won't let you go." How could John just get up and bloody leave after he ment so much to Sherlock?! He was everything, everything he needed and wanted, so how _dare _he just get up and leave Sherlock alone, with nothing but pieces of what they once had.__

The sirens are blaring as they pull up to the alley way, and Sherlock can hear harsh tones behind him. They'll fix John, that's what medic are suppose to do, save people's lives. Hope was sparked.

John reaches a bloody hand up, cupping Sherlock's cheek and leaving blood smeared on his fine skin. Tears stream down John's cheeks, and Sherlock presses the wound down harder.

"H-here's... to the b-best of ...times..." He whispers as people surround them, a medic kneeling on the other side of John, pressing his finger to John's neck to seek his pulse. All while people poke and prod him, John is staring at Sherlock, and Sherlock is staring back. John smiles.

_"THERE'S NO PULSE!!" ___

John is lifeless, lying on the pavement and Sherlock has had enough. He yells loudly, possibly just a yell, or maybe a cry of John's name, but either way, it causes the familiar hand of Lastrade to drop to his shoulder. Sherlock quickly shrugs to off, ripping his hands from John's stomach and gripping his shoulders tightly and shaking it.

_"JOHN!!" _Sherlock screams, and he feels two sets of arms on his shoulders, pulling him away from John and his empty eyes filled with nothing. Sherlock struggles in the grips, trying to rip away from the two police officers, judging by the strength of their arms. The detective kicks wildly, while people swarm John's body and bring a gurney and sheet toward him from the ambulance. Sherlock screams in protest. He is ignored.__

Sherlock is dumped by a police car while he continues to struggle to get to John, and the police officers exchange glances, sighing. They are approached by Detective Lestrade, who has a tired and sad look in his eyes, staring right at Sherlock, who has silence finally, sitting down and looking in John's direction. They lift his body from the ground, placing him on the gurney and rolling his body toward the ambulance. John's empty hand falls down and hangs, without purpose or life. Sherlock can still feel his stare through the sheet.

"Sherlock," Lestrade calls to the detective, which earns him more silence. "Sherlock!" Nothing.

Greg looks around helplessly, trying to get answers. He needs Sherlock's cooperation, but with the Doctor in the ambulance and a hole in his chest he knew this would be happening anything time soon. The ambulance starts up, smoke leaving the exhaust pipe in excitement, and Sherlock jumps up. Before he runs out of the alley, Greg grabs his arm.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Where are you off to now?" He asked. Sherlock stared at him with an empty expression. His face was tight and hidden, revealing nothing. It as honestly chilling to Greg, the level of emptiness.

He knew he would get nothing from the man, so he sighed with defeat, letting Sherlock's arm go. "I'm expecting questions to-"

But by then, he was gone.

_"I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me." ___

* * *

It's raining at 221B, and Sherlock hates it. The rain assaults the window with it repetitive drumming, enough to make any man blow his brains out. He can't escape it either, with no cases and the windows seemingly everywhere, the rain too heavy for him to leave his flat. So he sits on his chair.

It's quiet here. It's bloody infuriating.

John looks up at him, a smile of fondness of his face. But _blink _and he's gone once more. Sherlock would hate to admit to anyone that he sees John Watson when he knows he's not here, it's embarrassing and pathetic of him to do so. But when he sees small things, they all remind him of his blogger. The chip and pin machines, his room which he locked up, never daring to enter again, the table with a dusty laptop. He hadn't touched it, incase John came back one day and was irritated with him for touching his laptop.__

He hated the silence most of all.

Before he met John, he had his skull to chat to, make deductions to, impress. But when John came into his life, he had a living and breathing object to talk to _and it would talk back. _John was impressed by everything he did, and the attention was addictive to Sherlock. John was a please t addition in his life, and Sherlock thought he'd be okay when he found out Sherlock as a freak, which he would eventually. But he'd been so wrong. It's horribly impossible to function without him. His ribs are practically tearing skin, and he never sleeps, because when he does, all he sees are bloody jumpers and "the b-best of... times..."__

Sherlock places his hands in a prayer under his chin, and pretends that the silence isn't slowly killing him.

_"I don't have friends... I only have one." ___

**Author's Note:**

> And I shrug cuz all I do is kill John I'm sorry.
> 
> In all honesty, I don't have the guts to kill Sherlock after Alone on the Water... same with why I never kill Cas...
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ...i can dig elvis


End file.
